


Symbol, Meaning, and Intent

by dangermouses



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-11
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-14 01:02:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangermouses/pseuds/dangermouses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Derek is a grumpy tattoo artist, and Stiles is an ink virgin come for his first mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Symbol, Meaning, and Intent

”DEREK!”

The man in question closed his eyes and knocked his forehead against the door jamb; no matter how many times he showed her how to use the intercom, Erica insisted on bellowing his name up the stairs like she was calling for her dog. He started down the stairs after a moment of scowling, aware that if he didn’t answer, she’d yell again - her voice took on a screechy tonal quality the second time, and he could do without the headache.

He was greeted by her smug smile as he rounded the corner into the main room of the tattoo parlour, hidden from the front desk by a couple of red bead curtains. They had been Isaac’s idea - something about the glass beads looking like blood drops, fitting the motif of the store. That boy was always a little too close to being the bad kind of intense, Derek thought, but he had a frighteningly steady hand.

Erica snapped her fingers in front of his face; “Hey, earth to Derek! Are you even listening to me?”

“No.” Derek raises an eyebrow, looking at the petite yet terrifying blonde. Erica was sharp and sweet by turns, always looking for ways to ‘keep her boys on their toes’, as she said. Derek wouldn’t have tolerated her rudeness, but she was also obsessive about the health and safety regs, which in their business was paramount.

“You’ve landed a puppy today, since Boyd broke his hand and is working the desk.” Puppies were what Erica had nicknamed the customers coming in for their first ink, and the others had quickly taken her odd moniker to heart. The shop was called Wolf Moon Ink - inherited from his uncle, Derek had never thought to change the name and, despite the irritation, Erica’s shorthand actually made things a lot simpler.

Alphas were veteran ink addicts with dwindling supplies of blank skin; they usually asked for Derek or Isaac, looking for the most experience or artistry. Betas were the artistic types, who came in to discuss ‘body art’ and ‘the tapestry of the human skin’; Erica or Isaac usually dealt with them, able to make enthusiastic small talk without sounding mocking. Omegas were the nickname of anyone who came in with a design that the staff knew would be regretted later; names of significant others, clichéd designs, or just plain stupid ones. Derek wasn’t allowed near them, what with his inability to keep his irritation to himself, so the others took turns.

Boyd usually dealt with the puppies, since his calm demeanour usually rubbed off on them and he was big enough to hold down any squirmers. Derek scowled, scratching at his arm idly, “Can’t you-“

“No.”

“What about Is-“

“No.”

Derek took a deep breath, his voice roughening with anger as he crossed his arms across his chest, “Erica, I am-“

Erica put her hands on her hips, and Derek resisted the urge to step back. “What you ARE is dealing with this puppy, because Isaac is touching up Lydia’s flower sleeve and I have a whole list of Omegas to get through. So, you take the puppy or I make you sit and ink ‘Allison’ onto some idiot’s chest. Hearts and all.”

Derek cracked his jaw, his brow lowered in a resigned glare. “What time is the appointment?”

Erica flipped her hair and grinned, the red on her lips making her look positively fiendish. “Four on the dot. It’s a simple design, so not a huge amount of prep needing doing, and the stencil’s made up already.” She bites her lip, and Derek worries about what he’s going to be dealing with; it never goes well for him when she looks that pleased. “I think you’ll like this one.”

It turned out he did - sitting back in the recliner in his corner of the store, Derek examined the design. It was simple, clean swirling lines and it was painfully familiar - he couldn’t help but be curious about the reasoning behind it. A triskele wasn’t an uncommon tattoo, specially not since a lot of Betas tended to be the New Age type, but it was the first time he’d seen something so simple. So like his own.

Derek’s family had been- well, close knit wasn’t the right word. His great-grandparents had been Irish and - coming from huge families who all lived within a mile of each other themselves - they hadn’t abandoned the tradition when they emigrated to the States. Derek had grown up sharing a house with his parents, their siblings and spouses, numerous cousins and his siblings. He had never had his own room, the dinner table for him was more like some sort of medieval feast, all his clothes were hand-me-downs and then handed down in turn, and he had loved it.

Then he was fifteen and everything was ash.

His uncle had taken them in; Derek, and his sister Laura. The last of eight siblings, they’d curl up tight together in a single bed and try to imagine their heartbeats echoing, filling the room. It had been enough, for a while, to just cling to each other and surround themselves with ghosts. They would cover themselves in blankets, trying to ignore the need to breathe traded air, to hide themselves away. Laura would whisper and whine when she was feeling it badly, try to coax and comfort him when she was having a good day... nothing worked. Derek was never the same after the fire; he didn't deserve to be.

Peter tattooed them all, muttering about burns and scars and the meanings of marks, of choices - Derek across his back, Laura on the back of her neck, and himself over his heart. The triskele, he told them, was an old symbol even when the first Celts had come to Ireland; it had many meanings but the most important thing to remember was the number. Three. Everything good came in threes, he said. Land, sky, sea. Father, mother, child. Birth, life, death. Even the moon, he said, moved through three phases - new, waxing or waning, and full. Three was magic, and strong; the three sides of the triangle, the three states of matter, and them.

Then he was twenty-three, and alone.

“Uh, not to sound like a cheesy pick up line from a overrated rom-com, but you’re waiting for me, right?” Derek’s head snapped up, already scowling with his lip curling; he wasn’t used to being startled and, as with most unexpected things, his first recourse was to get angry about it. It had been a long time since he had got lost in thoughts of his family; beyond the nightmares and the biannual blackouts over the anniversaries (the fire and Laura), aided of course by Jim, Jack and Jose. He didn’t often drift into his thoughts at work; the great thing about spending your days subdermally scarring people with ink was that it took focus. He never had time to dwell; nor the inclination - usually.

The owner of the interrupting voice bounced on his sneaker-clad heels; the boy practically vibrated with young energy, making Derek feel old just looking at him. He must have been at least eighteen - what Erica had done to the last kid trying to pass off fake ID still made him smirk - but with pale gangly limbs all wrapped up in layers and plaid, he looked younger. Hair shorn close, freckles like new and strange constellations across his face, and no facial hair to speak of.

The suspicion must have shown in his eyes, because Erica drifted by, waving a hand to urge him into action; “Scrappy Doo here very helpfully and unnecessarily brought his passport, driver’s license and birth certificate. So, mush!”

Derek rolled his eyes, growling his irritation as he got to his feet, gesturing to the vacated spot. “Sit.”

**Author's Note:**

> The tattoo Stiles is going to get is this; http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/6/60/Triple-Spiral-Symbol.svg/643px-Triple-Spiral-Symbol.svg.png
> 
> It's a triskele but an older version, actually carved on the entrance stone at Sí an Bhrú. Ad yes, I made the Hales an Irish family. Because everything is better when it’s Irish.


End file.
